Power of Darkness
by fairwinds09
Summary: Damon can't seem to resist the compulsion to slip into Elena's room when she's asleep...but sometimes the outcome isn't exactly what he expected.
1. Nightmare

_This is my first fic for _The Vampire Diaries_, and I'm still experimenting with the characters and their unique relationships with each other. I'm fascinated by the chemistry between Damon and Elena, so it was inevitable that I'd play around with that spark between the two of them. This fic isn't set at any particular point in the show...just during the general Season 1 timeline._

_I'd love to hear what you think...please leave a review, if you're so inclined. And most of all, enjoy. :)_

_(I will also point out that I don't own any portion whatsoever of _The Vampire Diaries_. Though I wouldn't mind Damon wrapped up with a pretty bow.)_

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Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

That line was always attributed to Henry Kissinger, though Damon privately thought that Kissinger had stolen the spirit if not the exact wording of that line from him. Power was the definition of his life, the one thing he craved above all else…or at least that's what he wanted the rest of the world to believe. Power could make him temporarily forget the long years of disappointment and loneliness and cold, soulless immortality. Power was a drug, salty and thick on the tongue, burning like a fire in the gut, pumping like pure adrenaline through the veins. Power could do anything. Power was life.

It came in many different forms, all of which he appreciated with unabashed sensuality. There was the power of the hunt, the rich thrill of ending some pathetic human's existence and feeling the tangy lifeblood spurting bright and arterial down his throat. There was the power of the chase, when he toyed with his prey, letting them believe that they had a chance to run, to hide, until at the end they realized that there was no escape from the Reaper that stood unmasked before them. There was the power of seduction, the dark heat of a woman beneath him in the night, her gasps and his groans mingling in a duet no less pleasurable for its inevitable end. And then there was the power of compulsion, the ability to play with humans like puppets on a string with no more than the sheer hypnosis of his ice-bright eyes. Yes, Damon loved power. And dear God, power seemed to absolutely _adore_ him.

Which was precisely why the very existence of Elena Gilbert annoyed the hell out of him. The first human that had truly intrigued him in a long, long time was hedged round with the triple protection of vervain, a resemblance to the only woman he'd ever loved, and the ever-watchful eye of his younger brother, Saint Stefan. And no matter how Damon tried, he really hadn't been able to bring himself to breach any of her defenses…yet.

Tonight could change all of that. Tonight he was alive with power, incandescent with it, burning from the inside out with the white-hot intensity of pure flame. Tonight he had stopped caring about the restrictions of practicality or conscience or even safety. He wanted her in all her duality—goddess of the dark moon with the golden shimmer of sleeping Eve, virgin huntress with the generous warm eyes of Inanna, Persephone wrapped in the arms of Hades, one foot in the sunlight and the other caught in the musty silence of the grave. Angel and demon, the past and the present, lover and beloved, Heaven and Hell. Two women, one face.

Elena.

* * *

He swung one leg over the sill of her bedroom window, moonlight slivering over his figure, lean and coiled as a panther ready to strike. He was in black tonight, expensive material rippling over bunched muscles and porcelain skin. The absence of color suited him, and he knew it. Tonight he would blend into the darkness, become one with it, drag her with him into its depths. And if he knew one thing as he stepped into her bedroom, it was that this was going to be one hell of a ride.

She was asleep, lying on her side in the double bed with its cream duvet neatly folded at the foot and feather pillows strewn invitingly at the opposite end. Dark hair tumbled around her face, and one hand lay curled beneath her cheek. There was a faint line between her eyes, even in sleep, and as he watched she shifted restlessly beneath the tangled sheets. He'd become quite familiar with her collection of pajamas in the months he'd been slipping into her bedroom late at night. Tonight she wore a grey tank top that dipped low over smooth olive skin and clung to the subtle lines of her torso. Around her neck the locket with its deadly infusion of vervain glittered in the moonlight that slid through the half-opened window.

His feet seemed to move of their own volition, and within the space of a breath he stood at her side, one hand extended toward the curve of her cheek, fingers outstretched in anticipation of the feel of the soft, vulnerable skin. He didn't touch her, though, couldn't yet. Tonight he wanted all of her, warm and willing and awake. Tonight it would not be enough to take a moment of stolen pleasure, a thief's caress with trembling fingers and cotton-dry mouth. Tonight she was his, and he was determined that she would damn well know it by the time the sun streamed through that window the next morning.

He was about to brush the hair back from her face, lean down to wake her with an smoke-tinged kiss when suddenly she gasped, the sound sharp and bone-chilling in the absolute stillness of the darkened room. He almost jumped back in surprise; only one hundred and forty-five years of honed vampiric reflexes saved him from betraying himself, and he found his heart was pounding in time with hers as he flattened himself swiftly against her wall, blending into the shadows as only he could. She rolled over abruptly, her face twisted in pain or fear, and he watched with wary eyes as the hand on her pillow clenched a handful of the material in a desperate grip. She was dreaming, he realized. She hadn't seen him, had no idea that he was there. And as the first spike of adrenaline began to recede along with his fears of discovery, another took its place as he began to wonder what it could be that made her cry out even in the grasp of sleep.

She tossed again, her lips moving as she murmured something too low for even his abnormally sensitive ears to catch. Her hands opened and closed on thin air, grasping at something beyond the material world surrounding them, and she threw her head back in an inexplicable anguish, exposing the pulsing vein at the base of her throat. He was almost used to his bloodlust for her, and it was oddly easy to resist the urge to pin her down and feast on the rich warm lifeblood as it spurted helpless from her heart. It was harder now to stand motionless in the darkness and watch her struggle with a monster that neither of them could see.

But he could no longer force himself to stay still when the first sob ripped through the humid air and into his gut, raw and open and shocking in its depth of grief. Her slender body convulsed, instinctively curling into itself until she was a fetal ball under the blanket and sheets. And Damon Salvatore, the empty-souled bastard who had killed more people than he could count, seduced and broken more women than he could name, found himself again standing at the bedside of a lily-maid girl with a she-devil's face, hands outstretched to protect her from something he could hardly understand.

Before he could stop himself, he'd slipped into bed beside her, gathered her close against him with one hand while the other smoothed back her hair in a gesture that was more comforting than seductive. She was still crying, the sound muffled now against the smooth brushed cotton of his shirt, and he found himself stroking her back gently as her shoulders shook against his chest. Her hair smelled like green tea and some flower that he couldn't name, and his lips brushed the smooth plane of her forehead and the arrow-straight part that lined her scalp. And as he tilted her face back to note the silver teartracks trailing down her cheeks, something twisted inside him that he hadn't felt since he'd fallen in love with her doppelganger over a century before.

She curled into him in sleep, one arm around his torso to anchor him to her, the other wrapped around her stomach as if to hold in the pain lest it eat her alive. He held her silently through the long watches of the night, waiting for the first bright streaks of dawn across the horizon before he dared to let her go. She would not remember who had held her in the middle of the nightmare, would never know whose arms had sheltered her when she had nowhere else to turn. He preferred it that way. She'd go back to her knight in shining armor in the morning, delude herself into thinking that Stefan could take care of her every need, provide her every want. She would not even dare to wonder if perhaps the dark half of her imagination had given her consolation as well.

And as he silently pressed his lips to the crown of her head, as he rose carefully from her bed and ghosted lightly to the window, she never so much as stirred. He'd leave her in peace for this night, without asking any questions. He hadn't taken what he'd come for, and the knowledge burned like embers in his gut as he ran smoothly through the forest toward the Boarding House. But he and Elena were nowhere close to finished with each other yet. And she'd come to see that in the days and weeks ahead. He was sure of it.

There was always another night.


	2. Milk and Cookies

_This story is beginning to interest me, mostly because I have no idea where it's going. However, I'm currently enjoying the ride. :)_

_A brief explanation of the first sentence, for those unfamiliar with Tarot: the Devil is a Major Arcana card, and represents a number of qualities including lust, temptation, and hedonism. The Six of Cups is a Minor Arcana card, and stands for innocence, nostalgia, and unquestioning love. In this case, the former represents Damon's desire for Elena, and the latter represents her devotion to Stefan/her values.)_

_So...please read, review, and enjoy!_

* * *

The next time he slipped into her room in the wee hours of the morning, he knew the Devil wouldn't trump the Six of Cups tonight.

She had the light on, shining over the pages of the book she was poring over, and the warm glow of the incandescent bulb caught the filaments of her hair with a shifting spark. She was wearing another of those distractingly low-cut tank tops, this one in a dark blue that set off the silver of her dangling necklace. He wondered if she ever took it off. It was unlikely—he was sure that St. Stefan had told her what could happen if she surrendered that protection. As he watched, she lifted one hand to absentmindedly toy with it, winding the chain around one finger and then letting it loose.

He'd been perched on the edge of the windowsill, watching her with frustration like broken glass in his springwater eyes. Now he waited until she'd turned a page, and before she could draw another breath he was sitting beside her, peering soberly at the upside-down text of what he now realized was _Wuthering Heights. _

"In the mood for a little Brönte, are we?"

She swallowed a shriek and jolted backwards, nearly knocking the book off her lap to the floor. He caught it quickly and began flipping through the pages, his signature smirk curving one side of his mouth as he skimmed the story of Catherine and her doomed lover. It had been one of his favorite books for nearly a century and a half...ever since he'd lost his own Katherine to the empty dark.

Elena was staring at him, her eyes wide and accusing, and he shook himself back into the reality of the moment. It would do him no good to think of the past now. And so, slamming the book shut, he laid it back onto her knees and smiled disarmingly.

"I didn't know you had a thing for star-crossed lovers, darling," he murmured mockingly. "You and my dear brother have always been so..._happy_...together."

She glared at him, apparently fully recovered from the shock of his unexpected arrival.

"Get off my bed, Damon," she snarled, shoving at his arm uselessly. His grin widened, not least because she'd already gotten her hands on him and he hadn't even been there five minutes. This was going to be a good night.

"Now, now, Elena," he said reproachfully. "It's not nice to push people. Didn't you learn anything in kindergarten?"

Her eyes spit daggers at him, and he clutched his heart in mock agony.

"Oh, the glare, the glare," he moaned theatrically. "How will I ever recover?"

She lifted her book and whacked his chest with it, which gave him the chance to run his eyes covertly over her slim torso. He had to admit...he had a thing for this camisole-wearing habit of hers. If he were Stefan, he'd buy her an entire closet of the things. Hell, he might do it anyway, Stefan or no Stefan.

She came in for a second blow, and he scooted back a bit so she'd stop hitting him with things. Eyes fixed warily on him, she curled up defensively under the coverlet, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping both arms around them. He didn't mind playing the game with her, and so he spread out, lounging leisurely on one elbow, and shot her his best innocent eyelash flutter. But then she looked down at him with those melting chocolate eyes, and something in him kindled, a tension that settled low in his gut and thrummed there like a plucked chord. This might not be the night...but he knew he was getting closer to the brink every minute he was there. On the spur of the moment, he scooted to the end of the bed and safety, which in this case translated to Elena being out of arm's reach.

"So," he said brightly in an almost-perfect imitation of Caroline's ditzy voice, "why exactly is Miss Elena Gilbert up so late, reading Victorian romance novels and nibbling on..." he paused to inspect the plate on the nightstand, "homemade chocolate chip cookies?"

She gave him a speaking glance.

"Maybe because I want to, Damon," she pointed out. "Besides, it's hardly your business what I'm doing or when. You're not even supposed to be here, technically."

He brushed away the retort with a languid gesture.

"Technicalities, my dear, are the bane of an artistic existence. Avoid them whenever possible. Otherwise, you'll end up like..." he paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. She raised a mocking eyebrow.

"Like whom? Someone who doesn't consider passers-by in terms of tasty midnight snacks?"

His lips twitched before he could stop himself. He'd always loved her biting sense of humor.

"Darling," he shook his head sadly. "Don't remind me of my brother. I was having a pleasant night."

She gave him another dirty look and opened her book again.

"If you're just going to sit there and insult Stefan, you can leave," she said nastily. "I'm busy."

Between the space of one blink and the next, he was curled up beside her on the pillows, scanning the page along with her. She gasped in surprise and dug an admonitory elbow into his ribs.

"What the hell are you doing, Damon? This is not reading hour in the third grade. Go get your own story."

He grinned, lightning-fast and hot as banked embers.

"But you seem to be having trouble sleeping, _cherie_," he murmured throatily. "Don't you think you need a little help?"

"Not from you," she shot back, but he'd already noticed the goosebumps that had risen on her arms. His eyes flicked appreciatively up and down, noting the slight flush of her cheeks and the soft patter of her heartbeat. She might pretend that he was evil incarnate, but her body knew better. And he was insanely tempted to give her what she wanted whether she asked him or not.

Before he could make up his mind, she swallowed hard and deliberately raised her book until the worn red binding brushed the end of his nose.

"Get out of here, Damon," she said crossly, flipping a page with unnecessary force. "Go away and let me go to sleep."

One long pale finger inexorably brought the novel down until her eyes met his over the top of the binding.

"You won't sleep tonight, Elena," he told her, voice husky and rich with implication. "I don't have to be a witch to know that. But if it's what you want...well, good luck trying."

Before she could react, he leaned in and swiftly kissed the tip of her nose, smiling at the sound of the breath freezing in her lungs.

"I figured you probably wouldn't let me tuck you in," he said, and grabbed a cookie off the plate on her nightstand on his way over to the window.

"Sleep tight, Elena," he whispered mockingly, and then he was gone, swallowed up into the night, the only evidence of his brief visit the faint scent of Armani and the cookie crumbs left on her plate. Outside her window, poised on the outer edge of the sill, he watched as she shook her head, bemused, and stared sightlessly at her book for a long moment before sighing and flicking off the light. Oh, yes. He had gained ground tonight. And though the cards hadn't played out as he'd hoped they would, he knew that this evening he'd tipped the balance in his favor, if only for a short while. A temporary setback didn't matter.

There was a new hand every night.


	3. Honesty, 125 Proof

_Lo and behold, here is Chapter 3. I honestly didn't expect to update this so fast. But Damon and Elena got in my head, and this is the result. _

_I'm really enjoying this fic, as previously mentioned. It's got a different flair than my previous work. (By the way...yes, there is a change in tense in this chapter. I don't know why, it just seemed to fit. My apologies to all the purists out there.) I hope you're enjoying it too. _

_So...read, have fun, and take a second to let me know what you think._

_Thanks!_

* * *

Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?

--John Lennon

He can't sleep tonight. He keeps telling himself that it's the heat, or the humidity, or the two glasses of Scotch he had earlier. But deep down he knows that it's something else...something to do with derisive brown eyes and a silk-straight fall of scented hair, too many memories of flirtatious curls and sepia smiles. He wants them both, the old love and the new desire, and the emptiness in his gut is gnawing at him with the implacable fury of Prometheus' eagle.

After what seems an eternity of staring into the silent darkness, he can't take it anymore. Uncurling himself from the sheet, he rises and pads slowly to the head of the stairs, completely unconcerned by the fact that he's only wearing a low-slung pair of plaid boxers. He's in his own home, after all, and the only person who might see him is Stefan. Besides, a carefully chosen underwear collection is a terrible thing to waste.

He's all the way downstairs and rummaging around in the liquor cabinet before his senses register an unfamiliar presence, and he turns around with uncanny speed to discover the girl he can't stop thinking about curled up in the depths of his grandfather's big leather armchair. Her knees are drawn to her chest in what he recognizes as her classic brooding pose, and he pauses for a moment to appreciate the way the movement has drawn her running shorts up that long, tanned leg. But then the melancholy in her eyes draws his gaze back to her face, and he tilts his head to the side as she studies him dispassionately.

"Enjoying the view?" he remarks with his usual sardonic sneer, because he doesn't dare admit that he's worried about the downwards curve of her pretty mouth. She rolls her eyes and gives him a cool once-over.

"Not bad," she says dismissively. "But that's not what I came here for."

He raises an eyebrow and pours himself three fingers of bourbon. He has a feeling he's going to need the hard stuff tonight. Lazily he swirls the liquor around his glass and moves over to plop in the chair across from her. She flicks a brief glance at the amber liquid and then looks away, the line between her eyes a little deeper than before.

"You want some?" he asks, because he's seen that look on a woman's face before and he knows from experience that nothing more than a good drunk will take it away. She shakes her head, though.

"No," she says on the tail end of a sigh. "It's not going to help."

He closes his eyes and takes a deep swallow of his drink, relishing the sharp fire that slides down his throat and along his veins. She's missing it, he thinks. This is good Kentucky-aged bourbon, the best of the best. Perfect for a one hundred and forty-five year old Southern gentleman.

"So what are you brooding about?" he asks her carelessly, because she can't get the impression that he actually cares about her problems. That's Stefan's job. He's merely curious...or so he tells himself.

She shrugs and rubs one hand absentmindedly up and down her leg.

"Life in general," she says morosely. "Bonnie's grandmother, Caroline and Matt, and Stefan. Mostly Stefan."

Damon can't help the visceral tug of delight in the pit of his stomach, but he manages to mask it well. Taking another sip, he eyes her knowingly over the rim of the glass.

"So...what's my sainted brother done this time?"

The corner of her mouth twists in a little displeased moue, the gesture reminding him so vividly of Katherine that his hair almost stands on end.

"I get the feeling he's keeping things from me again," she says slowly. "Like he's only telling me enough of the truth to keep me from asking more."

He resists the urge to release a gusty sigh at her willful ignorance.

"He's a vampire, Elena. There are always going to be some things that he'll keep from you. It's part of who we are, how we survive. He may pretend to trust you completely, but inside he's no different from all the rest of us."

She winces a little at the word 'trust,' and he finds himself fighting the inclination to stroke her hair and tell her that everything will be all right. That's not his job either.

"This isn't the way it's supposed to be," she says miserably. "When two people are in love...there aren't supposed to be secrets between them, things that they won't tell each other. That's not how it was with my parents. I don't want it to be like this between Stefan and me either."

He stares at her, wondering if this lovesick chit is anywhere close to the clear-minded, hardheaded girl he's come to know. Maybe a good stiff drink would improve her outlook. It would certainly be handy in helping her logic.

"Elena, have you been listening to anything I've been telling you?" he inquires with a soft bite in his tone. "Vampires aren't meant to fall in love with humans. You're prey. We kill you, we eat you, or if we're in a particularly generous mood, we turn you. End of story. There's no such thing as full disclosure in our world...even among our own."

She looks straight at him, eyes suddenly filled with tears, and something cold and hard lodges in his esophagus, making it astonishingly hard to breathe. He's not feeling sorry for Elena Gilbert. He's not. Because that would mean that everything he just told her is a complete and utter lie.

"Then why," she asks with a little catch in her voice, "why have you always been honest with me? Even when it wasn't going to do you any good?"

He never expected that question. He never even considered that she might ask. He thought he'd constructed the perfect shield of arrogance and disdain and elegantly distant charm. But apparently something has slipped through his defenses, and he's left speechless, eyes glued to hers while his hand clenches in a death-grip around his glass. And if the tremulous half-smile on her face is any indication, she knows _exactly_ what is going through his mind.

"That's what's so strange about you, Damon," she murmurs wonderingly. "You're supposed to be the bad guy in this story. And yet you're the one who never lies. How exactly does that work out?"

He can't say anything, doesn't dare say anything. She may be floating on misery and defeat, but she's sharp enough to know and remember every move he makes, every gesture and every tone. She'll see through him in an instant if he tries to explain. So he merely sits back in his chair and raises the bourbon to his lips, not drinking because he knows the liquid won't make it past the huge knot of apprehension that's lodged itself in his throat.

She smiles for real this time, a glow of warmth that fills the dim room from floor to ceiling. He takes a careful breath through his nose and wills himself to not fall into giving her what she wants just because she has the smile of an Rossetti angel and the allure of Helen of Troy. But it doesn't matter at this point, because all of a sudden she unfolds herself from the chair and rises to steal the glass from his nerveless fingers, tilting her head back as she tosses it down.

"Not bad," she says again, and he has the feeling she's talking about his bare chest as well as the rich spirit. She sets the glass on the table beside him and leans down until they're almost nose to nose.

"You can't fool people forever, Damon," she says calmly, her voice almost annoyingly matter-of-fact. "You do care sometimes. And the more you think people won't notice, the more you keep fooling yourself."

She reaches out one small hand and cups his cheek, holding his face immobile as the blood runs ragged through his veins and his lungs forget to breathe.

"Remember that."

And then she's turned and on her way out the door, long legs moving smoothly and shoulders set under her plain white T-shirt. He doesn't even try to stop her, doesn't move a muscle as she closes the heavy front door behind her and vanishes into the cricket-filled night. He doesn't blink as he hears her footfalls thud down the porch steps and her ignition fire as gravel spurts beneath her wheels. In fact, he doesn't stir until he's sure she's good and gone, far enough away that she can't possibly see the effect she has on him. And when he finally does move, it's only to pour himself another glass of bourbon, settling into his chair with the spirits and his whirling thoughts. It's going to be a long, long night.

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He wakes up stiff and with a niggling headache from the alcohol, muscles tight and his eyes throbbing behind their tightly closed lids. He can't remember if her visit was reality or a dream, and isn't sure he really wants to know. It's enough that her scent is still on the damp morning air, and he can see the impression of her lips on the rim of his empty tumbler. If he actually did imagine the whole thing, at least his mind is supplying some truly amazing details.

Groaning, he stands up and stretches, running a hand over his chest and abdomen as he admires his physique in the mirror. He hopes she got an eyeful last night. It's only fair that an unwilling attraction should haunt her dreams as well. Right now, he's going to go take a hot shower and drive the memories of her tear-filled eyes and soft little hands out of his mind. But there's a sinking feeling in his stomach, though, as he realizes that even though he can fill the day ahead with other impressions, his favorite succubus is going to be back in his dreams come evening. Tilting his head back, he groans aloud. This isn't going to get any better until something between them changes, and he damn well knows it.

Hell. He doesn't stand a chance tonight.


	4. In the Mood

_All right. I know that Damon and Elena burned up the dance floor in last week's episode. And it was amazing, and epic, and all of the Delena fans in the entire universe went "Ahhhh." But I had this idea bouncing around in my head before last week, and so I went ahead and wrote it anyway. I realize full well that is it probably not as overwhelmingly awesome as the moment in the actual show. But do me a favor and give it a try. Just for kicks, okay? _

_With that little disclaimer in mind, please read, review if you like, and, as always...enjoy. :)_

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He was in the mood for a little brooding tonight.

It was the kind of evening meant for moonlight and slow dancing, scent of honeysuckle and verbena warm on the summer breeze, cicadas playing in counterpoint to the plaintive wail of a tenor sax. He had a glass of Merlot in one hand, a Cuban cigar in the other, and Coltrane playing on the stereo system. As far as he was concerned, it didn't get much better than this.

He caught himself right before the tail end of that thought and laughed out loud at the very idea. Of course it got better than this. Life was not about hot jazz and chilled wine, not in his world. Life was the hot flow of blood running metallic and filling down his throat, the brief struggle of a frail human body before the mortality drained out of it in fitful gusts and spurts, the icy thrill of absolute power in the narrowed pupils of his eyes. Life, his life, had little to do with the rhythm of lamplit music or the quiet sophistication of a solitary _aperitif_. Life was far more complex than that, and he'd do well to remember it if he ever wanted to find a way to survive in this cycle of death and revenge that had become his sole reason for existence.

Now that he thought about it, he found it ironic that he'd hated this home so much when he'd grown up in it, and now it held at least some fondness for him--if not the sort of draw people usually associated with the place of their birth. He'd actually grown somewhat attached to the rambling elegance it embodied, the combined sense of antiquity and comfort that drew him in and reminded him of an older and more dignified time. He'd been a cold-blooded killer for years--too many to, like Lady Macbeth, completely wash his ever-spotted hands--but that hardly meant he was incapable of appreciating the little subtleties that made this endless experience slightly more enjoyable. He just had to remember to not be sucked into them...to not forget that, no matter where he was or what the moment held, he was still a vampire. A creature of the night.

He was too busy musing over the complexities of being an undead immortal to notice the tell-tale crunch of gravel on the front drive or the quick tattoo of footsteps on the hardwood floors of the entryway, but the unmistakable thud of a beating human heart was too obvious to miss. By the time his nose had caught her distinctive scent and identified it as Elena, she was already standing at the half-opened French doors, one eyebrow raised as she took in his casual pose and the glass of wine dangling negligently between the fingers of one hand.

"Where's Stefan?" she asked without so much as a hello. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but that almost too-forceful directness was one of the things he liked best about her. He had no intention of letting her see that, though, and so he shot her one of his best sarcastic smiles by way of reply.

"Good evening to you too, Miss Gilbert," he murmured, a hint of his Southern upbringing creeping through the flat modern drawl. "Care for a glass of wine?"

"I don't think so," she said coolly. "I'm driving tonight, in case you hadn't noticed."

He shrugged elegantly and swirled the vintage carefully in his glass.

"Pity...it's a very good red. But far be it from me to be the one to lead you down the road of temptation," he mocked. She sent him another of those dirty looks--he was beginning to get inured to them by now--and propped one hand on her hip in a very good imitation of a chiding parent.

"Damon, stop messing with me and tell me where he went," she said with an exasperated note in her voice. "I need to talk to him."

"I'm right here," he said, spreading his arms wide to indicate his availability and giving her his best of-course-you-can-trust-me smile. "Speak."

"Don't be absurd," she muttered huffily and stepped out onto the porch, looking out past the circle of golden light as if she expected Stefan to somehow materialize out of the darkness. Behind her back, Damon permitted himself a small sneer and took another sip out of the delicate stemware.

"He's out," he said a little too cheerfully, enjoying the frustration in her eyes when she turned to look at him. "He didn't say when he'd be back."

"Well, did he say where he was going?"

"Do I look like his secretary to you?" he asked with sarcasm ripe in his voice.

"No, your legs aren't good enough," she shot back, leaving him briefly open-mouthed before he leaned back in his chair and released a delighted chuckle to the open sky.

"Ah, Elena. And here I thought you weren't any fun at all. You do manage to surprise me sometimes," he said with the heedless pleasure of a child discovering something new and interesting about his favorite toy. As he continued to laugh her eyes narrowed, and she looked as if she would dearly love to give in to her impulses and simply slap him across the face.

"If you weren't a vampire, I can think of so many, many things I'd love to do to you," she threatened darkly. He smirked, waiting for the import of her words to sink in, and watched with deep enjoyment as a sudden blush spread from her chin to her hairline.

"Oh, really?" he purred. "And what would those be, Miss Gilbert?"

"Nothing pleasant," she snapped. "Seriously, Damon, where did he go?"

"I don't know," he said, widening his eyes to give at the least the illusion of well-practiced innocence. "Seriously. So you might as well sit down and carry on a pleasant conversation instead of standing there like an avenging goddess or something." He lifted one shoulder in an intrinsically Continental movement. "I haven't even done anything particularly bad today. Cross my heart."

She sighed and pulled out one of the iron garden chairs, plopping into it with a weary nonchalance.

"What are you doing, anyway?"

He smiled and ran his finger around the rim of the glass.

"Thinking," he said mysteriously. She raised that eyebrow again, eyes curious as they scanned his face.

"About what?" she asked, tilting her head a little to the side in one of Katherine's signature gestures. On her it seemed not quite as coquettish, though, less deliberately flirtatious and more an expression of genuine interest. He wasn't sure if he liked the updated version or not. But the fact that he now had Katherine on the brain bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

"Mostly about the fact that I've got New Orleans jazz on the stereo and no one to dance with me yet," he said in an abrupt change of subject. She blinked, confused, as he set down his wine glass and moved in a soundless blur to stand in front of her, hand outstretched in a ridiculously over-formal bow.

"May I have the honor of this number, Miss Gilbert?" he said, years of cotillions and black-tie balls bringing the age-old formula to his lips. She shook her head at him, smiling a little.

"What?" she said incredulously, but he could see the little spark of enjoyment in the corners of those chocolate eyes and the tell-tale beginnings of a grin. All of a sudden he realized that he _wanted_ to dance with her, here on his back porch with no one to see them but the fireflies, the scent of flowers surrounding them and the molten harmony of cornet and tenor floating through the humid air. And so he waited until finally, more out of bewilderment than desire, she placed her hand in his and let him draw her upright and into the pattern of the dance.

They moved well together, he thought smugly as he pulled her into a slow and graceful beat. Gradually, the rhythm lulling her into a sense of security, she let one arm creep around his neck, the fingers of her other hand still securely twined with his. He realized that she was warm and pliant against him, trusting without realizing the presence of faith, but for once he wasn't thinking of the sweet call of her blood or the rising tide of desire that she inevitably aroused in him. For now it was enough to simply hold her, his cheek brushing the soft silk of her hair and her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder, nothing on his mind but the music and the girl in his arms. He'd danced with many women over a century and a half, he thought, but none quite as perfect as this one. And as they swayed together, his thumb stroking lightly against the small of her back, he turned his face into her hair and simply let himself live in the moment, breath by bated breath.

They might have stayed for there minutes, or maybe hours. He wasn't entirely sure. The only thing he was certain of was that the moment was broken the minute she heard the front door open and too-soft footsteps in the hall. For a second she froze in his arms, her eyes locked on his and her breath shallow against his skin. Then she dropped his hand and turned away, a small sheepish smile curving that oh-so-solemn mouth.

"That'll be Stefan," she murmured, as if trying to excuse her breach of courtesy, and he thought he saw something shadowed in her eyes before she nodded briefly and moved toward the door. He'd turned aside to pick up his forgotten glass of wine when he felt her brush against his arm and looked down to find her gazing at him carefully, eyes steady and back very straight.

"Thanks for the dance, Damon," she said, so softly that even his sharp ears could barely hear her. Then she rose on her toes and very lightly, very gingerly, planted a kiss on the razor-sharp curve of his cheek.

She had vanished through the door and was in the living room greeting Stefan before he re-discovered the capacity of speech. When he did, the only thing that heard him was the little garter snake that habitually spent the night curled up under the planter on the corner plinth.

"What..the...hell?" he muttered slowly, and raised the lukewarm wine to his lips, draining the entire glass. It now had a bitter, acidic tang that soured in the back of his throat, but he barely noticed. He only wished it had been Scotch or vodka instead. He had a feeling he was going to need the hard stuff to deal with what had just happened between them.

She'd danced with him. And kissed him. And he had absolutely no idea how to figure out any of the reasons why.

All in all, brooding was looking better and better tonight.


	5. Mirror, Mirror

_Okay, I know that this chapter doesn't have much Delena in it. It's really more about Damon and Stefan and all the mess that's between them at this point. But it's also an important buildup to the next few chapters, and a good look inside Damon's head as far as his brother's concerned. Their relationship, and their shared feelings for Elena, are such an integral part of the show that I couldn't resist the chance to play with them a little bit. (And the background will be useful later on, I think.) _

_So...read, drop me a line in the review box, and enjoy the angsty and impossibly cute Salvatore brothers. :) Okay? _

He'd never cared much for fairy-tale endings.

When he'd been a child, his mother had read to him from a heavy book crammed with the Grimm Brothers and Charles Perrault and Hans Christian Andersen. He'd loved sitting there curled up in her lap, surrounded by the faint scents of roses and spice and clean starched linen...warm and slightly sleepy, lulled by the low murmur of her voice and the squeak of the wooden rocking chair. But somehow the stories themselves had always disappointed him. He wasn't sure if it was because he felt a stirring of sympathy for the villains or simply found the heroes incredibly boring. Either way, something about the perfect world that storybooks seemed to create rang false for him, and he'd never been able to figure out exactly why.

One of the stories he'd always hated most was Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. He had nothing against houses full of pint-sized men with absolutely no ability to cook, clean, or do their own laundry. He thought Snow White was merely annoying in the goody-two-shoes way of most storybook heroines. But the evil queen and her obsession with her magical reflection hit too close to home for his liking. Everyone was a mirror; he'd learned that early on in life. And while the reflections might not be obvious or even apparent to the naked eye, on closer inspection everyone manifested a little bit of someone else.

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

He'd always enjoyed observing himself reflected in the shiny perfection of the glass. He was a handsome bastard, and he damn well knew it. (So did a significant number of the female population, but that was hardly relevant at present time.) And so he was busily adjusting the collar of his sharply tailored black shirt and admiring his carefully tousled hair when Stefan walked in, looking as miserably depressed as usual. Damon thought about reminding his dear brother of the old Ella Wheeler Wilcox chestnut "Smile and the world smiles with you," but forbore. There really wasn't much of a point when you were talking to someone who'd been on a one hundred and forty-five year old fast.

"Going out tonight?" Stefan asked moodily, and Damon couldn't help the cocky little smirk that rose to one corner of his mouth. God, he loved the fact that he was sexy and immortal and unattached...well, sometimes. And tonight was most definitely one of those times.

"Yep," he said coolly, and gave his tie a last twist before turning away from the mirror. "How do I look, Mom?"

Stefan glared.

"Why should I care?"

"Because we happen to have the same last name, and therefore I am a reflection on the family. Besides, the world can only handle one moping, unattractive Salvatore brother at a time."

His brother rolled his eyes and picked up Damon's discarded glass of Scotch, sniffing carefully at the contents before setting it back down with an audible click.

"You're hitting the hard stuff pretty early in the evening, aren't you?" he asked, a faint censorious note in his voice.

"I'm over twenty-one," Damon shot back, running a casual hand through his hair as he reached for his leather jacket. "And since when have you cared about what I drink?"

Stefan gave him an incredulous look.

"Maybe since you came back to the town where I live and started picking off the townspeople," he said bitterly. "It makes it a little difficult to be accepted in the community when your brother is running around snacking on your neighbors."

Damon snorted and smoothed down the jacket's collar, reaching for the keys he always kept in the right-hand pocket.

"Please, Stefan, I stopped making Happy Meals out of the locals over a month ago," he pointed out caustically. "I have a vested interest in keeping a low profile too. Besides, I'm friends with the Founders' Council now, remember? I'm on the inside. Which means..." he turned back to his brother and met his eyes straight-on "..._don't piss me off_."

And with one last glance in the mirror he was out the door and heading for his car, expensive shoes scuffing on the gravel drive. He was behind the wheel and out on the highway in record time, and the steady beat of the radio kept him from hearing again in his head the similarities in their voices, seeing his expression reflected on his brother's face. It wasn't until he was pulling in at The Grill and checking his rearview mirror for traffic that the memories hit him like a sucker punch in the gut.

He and Stefan playing ball in the garden, blond and black hair shining in the soft Virginia sunlight. Fishing in the river that wound through the fragrant woods behind their house, sitting stiff and uncomfortable during the antebellum formalities of dinner, making his brother laugh as he deftly imitated his father's outdated mannerisms behind his back. A little older, voices cracking and feet too big, fighting the innate shyness of all teenage boys just beginning to notice that girls are actually pretty. The fights, the arguments, the silent for-granted forgiveness that was as much a part of their lives as breathing in and out. And then the whirlwind descent into the fires of Hell, falling in love with _her_, feeling the pull of heartbreak as for the first time he and Stefan shared something that was never really theirs to hold. The fury, the betrayal, the hatred as he looked in the mirror of his brother's face, saw Katherine's destiny in his eyes. The flare of hope as they pulled her out of the back of that barred cart, the welcome sense that they were brothers once again, doing everything together just as they always had. And then the split second of pain, the unbelievable awakening, the agony as he realized she was gone. The emptiness, the cold sickness in the pit of his stomach, Stefan standing before him with madness in his smile and warm blood dripping from his lips. One hundred and forty-five years of anguish and revenge, and he still could not let go.

He couldn't do it. Despite all the years of fury and cold hate, he couldn't even imagine it. How could you destroy your other side, the part of you that never had a chance to surface, the hope that someday you could be something else, someone else? How could you let go of the one person who remembered everything you'd been, everything you'd tried to be, the only one who knew what it was to love the impossible and lose it in a fire beyond belief? How could you lose the only person left on the face of the planet who shared your blood, your memories, your fears? There was no way out of it. There never would be. He and Stefan were trapped in the mirror, caught in the cycle of death and loyalty and twisted love, always doomed to be the fairest of them all. And though Katherine had left their lives over a century ago, the pattern would continue. Against his will, Elena's face floated into his mind, eyes warm and smiling, full mouth promising the impossible, the tilt of her chin buying affection that she never meant to repay. She wasn't Katherine; that much he knew. But she was quickly becoming their girl, the center point of that triangle with Damon at one corner and Stefan at the other. They were mirror images, and she had no alternative but to choose one chimera over another.

But seven years is a long time to wait out the curse of fortune...and the mirror would remain unbroken tonight.


	6. Need You Now

_All right--I know it's been a while since I updated. I'm in the smack-dab middle of finals week right now, so I apologize for the delay but can't promise that it won't happen again. I'll try to do better, though. Cross my heart. ;)_

_Anyway, this chapter is set after the tomb has been opened and Damon has discovered that his lady love left him for greener pastures quite a long while ago. (As you will quite easily see in the chapter itself.) I truly love the scene in the actual series in which Elena hugs him and tells him she's sorry. But I wanted to re-imagine it on my own terms and add a little dash of intimacy that's missing when Stefan's looking on at her sympathetic hug. So...voilá! _

_And, as always...I hope you read, review, and find something to enjoy._

He cannot find the will to burn tonight.

Normally he's fueled on power, riding on its bright-flaring high, feeding off its energy as it feeds off his. Normally he's willing to make a ceaseless bargain with the devil inside himself, trading the waning vestiges of his humanity for the unbelievable rush of freedom, wild and hot and dangerous as the razor-sharp edge of a polished blade. But tonight he has no energy left, no rush, no fuel, no high. The flame is guttering, and all he has left are the broken edges of what used to be a man, shattered and stained beyond all repair.

She left him. It's all he can think, over and over again as he stares into the dancing flames. All these years he thought it was his fault, that if he'd been a little more careful and a little less trusting she wouldn't have been trapped in that dank tomb for a century and a half. He'd waited for her, longed for her, missed her in every bone and tendon throughout the endless years. Sometimes, late at night when an anonymous body slept beside him and the moonlight poured in cold and crystal through the windows, he'd thought of her and ached with the memory of what they'd been. He'd never met another woman like her...beautiful and treacherous, self-centered through and through, a skilled manipulator who could do anything, beguile anyone, just with the simple magic of a tilt of the head and a smile. Unlike Stefan, he'd loved her because of, not despite, her faults. And he would have sooner taken his own life than watch her be carried away, leather bridle an obscene framework around her lovely face, body limp and weak from vervain, arms falling loose and languid at her sides. Helpless.

He'd protected her as best he could. He'd trusted his brother to not betray his secret, to lie for the woman they both loved. He'd had no way of knowing that Stefan's stupidity had recklessly exposed them all. And then when the world came crashing down around him, when he lost father and home and lover all in one blood-soaked night, he had nowhere left to turn but the thrill of the hunt and the rush of the kill. It's all he's had since. He thought that tonight the long wait would be over and he'd be whole again, his other twisted half fit to the mold she'd made. But he should have realized that she could not be anything other than what she was. And the Katherine Pierce he'd known and loved one hundred and forty-five years ago would never have waited for any man, no matter how deeply he cared for her. She was always on the lookout for the next opportunity, the next encounter, the next victim...and love never entered into any portion of her beautifully calculating mind.

And now he's sitting in an deserted forest, gaze flicking over the rubble of an empty tomb, wondering why the resurrection he'd thought would bring his Easter had dissolved into the darkness without a trace. She wasn't there. She'd never been there. She'd left him over a century ago and never looked back. She was in Chicago, he thinks miserably, hopelessness a hard lump in the back of his throat. Chicago. She could have so easily come back, so easily found him. But she hadn't, and she never would, and somehow or other he was going to have to find a way to live with that.

He sighs and hooks an arm around one knee, drawing it up to his chest, hunched over like a child trying to curl up under the blankets and forget the world outside. He's never weak; he can't afford to be. Everyone else depends on him to be strong, even when he's not. Of course they expect him to be a bastard. He's cultivated the image too carefully for it to not be effective. What everyone fails to realize is that beneath that devil-may-care facade is a steadiness that can handle whatever the world throws at him. But tonight--tonight that strength has crumbled, disintegrated under his feet, and as he lowers his forehead to the top of his knee, his sigh is a requiem for broken dreams.

He's lost so deep in the pain that he barely hears the sound of footsteps crunching over sticks and fallen leaves. He doesn't even look up until he hears her sit down, feels her warmth next to him. She doesn't touch him, not now, and he's grateful that she seems to know instinctively that he can't bear the sensation of a human hand just yet. There's too much of that fragile humanity too close to the surface in him now; he's raw, open, nerves exposed to the cool fall air and the roaming breeze. Oddly enough, she's shielding him from the worst of the grief, cushioning his senses until he can almost bear to draw in the next breath, and then the next. He's vaguely tempted to take her hand, hold onto her like a trapeze artist clutching the wooden bar that lets him fly weightless through the air. But he can't bring himself to make the first move, display the cracked edges of his existence to her...give her the knowledge of the trust she has already earned.

After a moment she shifts, stretching out her legs and rubbing her arms a little to ward off the chill. Normally he'd shrug out of his jacket and toss it to her, masking the innate gentility of the action with casual words and an easy smile. Tonight he merely turns his head until his cheek rests against his knee and looks at her guardedly through the haze of his lashes, eyes blue-green and blank in the glow of the firelight.

"What're you doing here?" he asks emotionlessly, voice dropping into the silence like liquid ice poured over the rocks. She raises an eyebrow and laces her fingers together in her lap, staring down at short fingernails with chipping pink polish.

"I saw the light on the road and pulled in," she says slowly, voice calm but eyes wary. She's not sure what he's going to do next, he realizes, and she's braced for rage or heartache or some strange combination of the two. He wishes he could find the words to tell her that he doesn't have the energy for either reaction, that he's empty through and through, battened down and hunkered over, left grim and waiting to look for the eye of the storm.

She tilts her head a little and peers at him carefully, brown eyes searching and warmer as she takes in the weariness in his face.

"You need to rest, Damon," she tells him softly, her lips pursed as she takes in the dark shadows under his eyes and the sharply carved lines around his mouth. "You look..."

He tries to slice her open with a look, and fails miserably. She huffs out a reluctant little breath of laughter.

"...tired. You look tired. When was the last time you got any sleep?" she asks, with that little furrow forming between her brows that always inspires in him the absurd desire to lean over and kiss the worry away. She looks at him, more questions in her eyes, and he shrugs lightly.

"Don't know. It doesn't really matter, you know. Vampire, remember? I can run on no sleep for a lot longer than...well, you, for instance."

He can tell she's resisting the urge to roll her eyes, and despite himself he can feel a faint smirk curving the corners of his mouth.

"Don't worry about me, Elena," he orders her, with much less force in the command than usual. She shoots him one of those "Seriously?" looks of hers and starts fiddling absentmindedly with the chain of her locket. The silence stretches out between them, taut as a tightrope-walker's line, and he can feel himself suspended in that limbo between grief and exhaustion, trapped in the in-between. Something of that drained-ness must show somewhere, because she looks over at him again and her face twists a little in an answering pain. Gently, she lays one hand on the sleeve of his jacket and simply holds him there, anchoring him to the ground, and he fights the sudden overwhelming need to crumple into a shapeless ball and let the fire consume him utterly until nothing but ash remains. She feels him shudder, one hard racking tremor that goes through his whole body, and then he leans back against the tree and sighs as the worst of it lets go.

"Shh," she whispers tenderly, and her hand slips from his sleeve to the side of his face, her thumb stroking slowly along the cheekbone. "It's going to be okay, Damon. I promise. It's going to be okay."

She doesn't know what she's saying, and he knows that she's riding on instinct right now, not thought. So he lets her try to comfort him and instead hugs his emptiness to him like a lover, drinking it in and refusing to let her pass through his guard. After a moment she lifts her hand from his cheek and looks at him, eyes boring into his until he turns his face away and looks into the flames with feigned indifference. She knows what he's doing--she can see through every move, every subtle lie. But she's not going to push the issue, not tonight, and so she settles back down against the tree and tilts her head back, eyes slipping shut as her own tiredness takes over. They sit there in silence, the broken pieces and the glue that seeks to mend the cracks, and somewhere in that vast expanse of wordlessness he finds a tiny sliver of peace.

It's in the low 30s tonight, and he knows she must be getting cold. But when he looks over to ask her how she's doing, he realizes she's fast asleep, still leaning back against the rough bark of their shared tree. He wants to pull her into him with one arm, curl his body around hers and keep her warm, his cheek pressed to her hair and her head lying heavy on his chest. But tonight he can't let himself use her, pretend she's Katherine and that his lover has returned to him as he's dreamed for countless years. He owes her more than that, if for no other reason than that she came to find him in the middle of a forest in the dead of night. And so he pulls off his jacket and drapes it over her shoulders, brushes back the long silky hair from her forehead and traces his thumb over the contour of her lips, his face set and unreadable in the guttering light. He'll stay with her, here in the darkness and the cold as despair washes over him and he waits impatiently for the dawn. And when the sun rises, it will touch the frigid ashes of the fire, the quiet rise and fall of her chest as she sleeps beside him, the glint of his ring as in unconsciouness his fingers finally take and hold her hand. And when they wake, her face will be the first thing he registers in the low-glinting rays of morning light.

But here under cover of darkness, he doesn't want to acknowledge that he's in need of her tonight.

(A/N: Yes, I stole the chapter title from Lady's Antebellum's hit "Need You Now." It's not mine. Don't sue.)


	7. Three Sheets to the Wind

_Okay, I think I'm making up for not posting in a good long while. Two chapters in one day? I'm on a roll. At any rate..._

_Perhaps before you read I should explain that I am _not_ trying to make Damon seem like the world's worst lush in this little fic. But you have to admit--on the show he always seems to have a drink (or two) close to hand. So I thought that I'd explore what Damon might be like when he's a little schmammered, as a German friend of mine used to say._

_Anyway, read, tell me what you think, and have fun with one very hot and inebriated vampire. :)_

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

He's letting the liquor take the brunt of the heartbreak tonight.

Driving is no problem. He's driven these roads ever since cars were invented. And should any police officer be unfortunate enough to pull him over, he'll simply add a private dinner to public intoxication. There's no way to lose this little game he's playing. And as he zips around corners and flies through the darkly brooding trees, he can feel the demon inside of him rip and claw its way free, the reckless adrenaline pumping strong and heady through his veins. He doesn't care tonight, about losing Katherine, about hating his brother, about the growing attraction that's pulling him toward Elena, about the relentless agony of thwarted yearning that keeps pulling him away. He's all-powerful tonight, a god of wine and straight-shot whisky, and his Dionysian revels haven't even yet begun.

He pulls into the gravel drive of the Boarding House far too fast and is out the door and climbing the steps with uncanny, inhuman speed. He can smell something on the air, something warm and pulsing and alive, and he's so intoxicated that it takes him a good minute of serious thought to realize that there's a human somewhere around the place. His first reaction is annoyance that anyone has dared invade his private sanctum, but after a moment he changes his mind and lets the easy bloodlust take over what little remains of the rational half of his brain. He wants cruelty and heat and danger tonight, bitter and burning as it coats the back of his throat and slides easily over his tongue. This is perfect, he thinks lazily as he stumbles carelessly up the steps and throws open the front door. He'll slip off his jacket, because he hates getting blood on the expensive Italian leather, get a little chaser ready on the sideboard, and go make dinner off of whatever unlucky stiff has decided to wander past his front door.

It doesn't hit him until he's in the door and halfway out of one sleeve that the human scent is coming from _inside_ the house, and it's much closer than he'd thought when was outside. He freezes, and as his senses clear a little and a tiny hint of reason begins to surface, he finally identifies exactly who it is that's broken in and is wandering around somewhere in his living room, heart pumping deliciously and blood flowing rich through fragile blue veins. When he turns around, he doesn't have to look over at her to know that it's Elena sitting on his couch and flipping through one of the books he left carelessly scattered over the coffee table. She's very deliberately not looking at him, and he knows it's not because she didn't hear him come in. But she seems to realize that he's not quite himself tonight, and she's either scared or angry that he's currently sozzled beyond all belief.

Moving slowly so as to avoid collapsing on the floor, he weaves his way over to her and flops down on the other end of the couch, appreciating the way that his bones seem to melt to fit the contours of the cushions. He tries to pull off his customary eyebrow raise, but some of his facial muscles seem to be down for maintenance at present time, and he decides to settle for a sloppy grin and something that looks vaguely like a wink.

"So..." he slurs theatrically, "what're you doing in my house at this hour of the night, Miss..." he pauses while his brain searches for the rest of her name "...Elena Gilbert?"

She gives him a single frosty look and returns to whatever it is she's reading.

"Waiting for Stefan," she says briefly. He nods gravely and lifts his feet to prop them on the varnished wood of the coffee table, carefully examining the tips of his shoes as he waits for her to continue. When he registers the fact that she's not saying anything, he figures it's probably his job to hold up the floundering remains of the conversation.

"He's not back yet," he observes wisely, and he senses rather than sees her lift her eyes to the ceiling in annoyance.

"Yes, I know, Damon," she says, frustration bleeding through every word, and the spine of her book comes up a little higher as she seeks to shut him out. He'll have none of it, though. This is his night, his sole escape, and she's not going to spoil it for him. And so, very carefully, he raises one foot and uses the toe of his shoe to nudge the book down until he can finally see her face.

"You are not being very friendly tonight, Elena," he says chidingly. "That's not good. Especially considering the fact that...this is not your house."

He delivers the last statement with the triumphant logic of the very drunk, and he's unexpectedly miffed when she refuses to consider the inherent rationality of his point.

"Go away, Damon," she says curtly, and pushes his foot away as she picks up her book again. "You're drunk, and you're not thinking straight, and I don't want to deal with you tonight. Go bother someone else."

He shakes his head at her lack of courtesy and nudges her book again with his toe.

"But I don't want to go bother anyone else," he says with an almost childlike honesty. "And you know something? No one else has bothered me...for a long, long time. Nobody...but you."

He can see her swallow and he knows she's not reading the words on the page anymore. She shuts her eyes for a moment as if to gather strength from someplace he can't understand, and when she opens them there's something unfamiliar shining in the chocolate-hazel depths.

"Go away, Damon," she half-whispers, only now it's a plea instead of a command. He's breaking down her defenses without really even trying, and it's a pity that he's too drunk right now to triumph in his unexpected victory.

"But I don't want to," he says quietly, and he fixes her with a blurry ice-blue stare that's more vulnerable than he can know. "I don't want to be alone tonight, Elena."

She lets the book fall, and her eyes slip closed again as she fights the polar emotions warring inside of her. When she raises her head again the battle is won, and he knows without having to be told that, at least for this moment, she is his tonight.

"Damon," she murmurs on the tail end of a sigh, and she leans over to gently stroke one hand over his tumbled hair. "Come on," she orders, shoving at his shoulder to get him moving, "come with me." He's unexpectedly docile, and as she takes his hand and drags him into the kitchen, he doesn't even make a token protest. Perching on the edge of the counter, he watches absently as she moves easily around the kitchen, picking up this and filling that. Finally his curiosity overcomes him, and he slides down to come look over her shoulder at whatever is in her hands.

"What're you doing?" he asks almost cheerfully, and he's impressed by the fact that she doesn't even jump when his breath blows warm on the exposed skin of her neck.

"Making coffee," she replies briskly, and moves back over to the freezer to put away the grounds. "Go sit down before you fall down, Damon." She takes in his ambling shuffle with an all-too-practiced eye, and raises one eyebrow in astonishment as she does a mental calculation of how much he must have drunk tonight. "Good Lord, you're plastered. How on earth did you manage to get home in one piece?"

He flops obediently in one of the kitchen chairs and watches her hazily until he remembers that at some point she asked a question, and he's probably supposed to answer. After a moment of mind-rummaging he comes up with something that he thinks makes sense.

"Vampire, remember? We are...virtually indestructible," he points out, and then he gets distracted by the bottle of water that she shoves in his hands as she brushes past him.

"What's this for?" he wants to know. She shoots him an incredulous look and rolls her eyes as she watches him struggle fruitlessly with the little plastic cap.

"It helps you rehydrate," she tells him matter-of-factly. "Here, give me that."

She twists the cap off for him and hands back the bottle as she moves away again. He wants to grab the hem of her shirt and pull her back to him, tell her how pretty she looks in the cozy lamplight that fills the quiet room. But she's moving too quickly and his reflexes are too slow, so he nurses his water bottle and contents himself with watching her move around his kitchen with an ease that belies the fact that she doesn't live here...yet.

After a moment he can smell something rich and fat-inducing, and there's a sizzling sound coming from the direction of the stove as the aroma spreads through the air. He doesn't think he'd better risk getting up again, so he slumps back in the chair and frowns in puzzlement at the straight firm line of her busy back.

"What're you making now?" he wants to know as she stirs something in a glass bowl and pours it into a sputtering saucepan. She pokes at the other pan with her spatula and turns around to check on him, gauging how much water he's drunk so far.

"Eggs and fried potatoes," she says after a moment, and her lips curve up in a remarkably sad grimace-turned-smile. She turns to stir the eggs again, and when she turns back around to face him her eyes are suspiciously damp and her lips are trembling. "The first time I went on a bender in high school, I got home at four in the morning and there were my parents, sitting there waiting for me. They chewed me out for a while, and then my dad took me in the kitchen and cooked eggs and potatoes for me. He said his dad had done it for him the first time he'd gotten drunk, and now that it was his turn he was going to do it for me. He said..." she paused and smiled that sad smile again, "...he said that if I was going to be stupid, at least I wouldn't regret it so much in the morning. And you know something? He was actually right."

He watches her quietly, registering every quiver of her voice and every sliver of heartbreak in her eyes. He doesn't know when their roles changed, when she became his protector and he became the one needing comfort. He doesn't know how it happened, when she gave him some vital part of herself and he took it without so much as realizing what he held. But it's happened, and it's too late to turn back now. And as the scent of scrambled eggs and potato wedges weaves through his brain, he begins to let go of the edge he's been holding onto for so long and simply lets himself...fall.

They drink coffee together till the wee hours of the morning, neither of them realizing that Stefan's still not home and they really don't seem to care. They eat steaming eggs and salty potatoes and gradually he begins to feel more like himself, only without the usual edge that signals Damon Salvatore to the rest of the world. They find themselves laughing like loons as he feeds her eggs off his fork and she flicks sugar at him that spilled when she doctored her coffee. They talk about black-and-white movies, eighties rock and Billie Holliday's blues, the overwhelming importance of a good white wine in coq au vin and the fact that he hates Dostoevsky but for some reason loves _The Brothers Karamazov_. She tells him stories about her parents and Jeremy, and he promises to someday show her how to properly jitterbug if she'll let him practice the tango. And when they finally begin to fade into exhaustion, he somehow finds the strength to sweep her off her feet and carry her into the living room, where he lays her gently on the couch and throws an afghan over her to hold off the chill. As he settles down in the depths of the leather armchair, the last thing he remembers seeing is her shoulders rise and fall gently in time with the slow, steady rhythm of her heart.

But he can't let himself sink too deeply in love with her, he thinks on the verge of sleep... no matter how far he's fallen tonight.


	8. Bête Noire

_Well, this chapter is a bit odd, to say the least. I couldn't resist playing out the mirror aspect I started earlier on, though, and this is what resulted. The reference at the beginning is, of course, to Major Arcana cards in a Tarot deck. The Priestess is a symbol of love, wisdom, mysticism, and serenity, among other things. The Empress is a symbol of fertility, power, sensuality, and nature. I leave it to you to decide which card represents Elena and which represents Katherine...or how they sometimes share aspects of both. _

_Also, before I forget, thanks again to all of you who have reviewed this particular fic. You've been amazing, and I can't fully express how encouraging and helpful you've been. _

_So, as always...please read, let me know what you thought, and have a good time exploring the darker side of Damon's imagination. :)_

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The Priestess and the Empress are dueling for his memory, and there is no telling which is going to seduce him more tonight.

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It's summer and she's asleep next to him, lying curled up with one hand tucked under her cheek and her long hair streaming over his pillow. He knows that in the morning, when she's gone, he'll be able to smell her on the crisp cotton case...roses and amber with a faint hint of something exotic and spicy. The thought makes him smile, and without thinking about it he reaches out to twist a strand of hair between his fingers, savoring the silky feel of it. She's so beautiful, he thinks as the moonlight slices in through the window, and he wonders how in the world she ever ended up here, with him...how she came to love the black sheep, the older brother who somehow can never seem to merit his own fatted calf and shining ring. But for once in his life, someone has chosen _him_, and nothing can steal that knowledge from his hungry grasp. And as the curtains shift and sway in the warm breeze, he gently runs a finger over her bare shoulder and down to her half-closed hand before raising it, almost reverently, to his lips.

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The wind is whistling and the rain pounds against his windows, but it's quiet in here, just the sound of coals falling in the grate and the soft whisper of hands over bare skin. She's beautiful, he thinks as the firelight gilds her figure in rose and gold, and as her lips slide to his collarbones he tilts his head back with a tortured sigh. There's no part of him that she can't have, no corner of his soul that she hasn't ensnared. He is hers, completely and utterly, and when his hands tangle in her hair and his mouth meets hers, he feels her reckless laughter reverberate against his lips.

It's much later, when the fire has dwindled to a few glimmering sparks and they're lying breathless and sated on the Persian rug, that he finally regains the energy to raise his head and press an absent-minded kiss to her tumbling hair. She murmurs something unintelligible and shifts until her head lies more truly in the hollow of his shoulder; and without realizing it, he tightens the arm around her in an innately possessive motion. Cat-like, she smiles, and runs one long slender finger from the dip of his clavicle all the way down to the smooth flat stomach below. Even in this state of satiated exhaustion he wants her, and before he can be caught up in the whirlwind again he catches her hand and holds it firmly as her fingers twist fiercely in his grip.

"Let me," she whispers compellingly, and he almost gives in to the heat threading through her husky voice. But something about the moment, the contrast of the wild night and the warmth of the sleepy fire, makes him want to lie here and simply hold her, tangled together like embroidery threads on the untidy back of a cloth-filled hoop. So he twines his fingers through hers and rolls to his side, propped up on one elbow so he can look down into her shadow-lit, lovely face.

"You are..." he begins, and then can't finish the sentence, has to end it with a wordless sigh, because how can he put this thought into the king's English and expect it to make sense? She is both pain and pleasure, bright glory and the darkness his nightmares are made of, and he cannot find strength to let her go or turn away. Instead he finds himself stroking her cheek with one thumb, his fingers curled against the soft contour of her jaw, and he can see her eyes darken at the half-spoken words and aching touch. Slowly she sits up until she's leaning back on her forearms, head tipped back so that she's poised knowing and vulnerable beside him, and he closes his eyes against the sharp sting of mingled infatuation and desire.

"_Katherine_..." he whispers, just before she leans up and nips boldly at his lower lip, taking what she wants without a single thought of anyone else in the entirety of his world. She'll have all of him, he knows it, and before it's over she'll leave him broken and empty, lying in the dust. But right now he'll give her anything she'll take, surrender everything he's ever cared for or desired, and leave the fate of the spinning world in her dainty hands for the sake of a single kiss.

"I want you," she murmurs in reply, and it's enough to send him free-falling over the edge he's clung to...hands battered and bleeding, scrabbling for purchase at the rock-strewn edge between torment and unspeakable pleasure. He's flying into the darkness, blind and dumb and lame with the intensity of his passion for her, and as the waters close above his head the last thing he remembers is the delicious agony of her teeth in his unprotected flesh.

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He's back at home, his real home, not the Boarding House, and she's flying down the steps as he runs to meet her, long glorious hair streaming like a gilded banner behind. He catches her halfway across the lawn and picks her up, swinging her in a madcap circle as their laughter rings out to the bright blue August sky. Her hands are clinging to his shoulders for balance and her smile makes him dizzier than their spinning, and in the midst of a breathless revolution he stops still and lets her slide down as he wraps both arms around her waist.

"I've missed you," she says, eyes sparkling up at him, and without thinking twice he dips his tousled head and kisses her hard, coloured joy exploding like fireworks inside his chest. She laughs once, a delighted little gasp of sound, and kisses him back. He cups her head in one lean hand, fingers curving around the shape of her skull, and when he can't think anymore he pulls her to his chest and lets himself breathe with her in one long elated sigh.

"Come on," he tells her, and they race hand in hand across the grass to the cool boundary of the forest; she looks back over her shoulder at him as she pulls ahead, and he can't help but laugh at the deliberate challenge in her smile. He almost beats her, and when they flop down, panting, on the bank of the little stream that trickles through the rich Virginia soil, he's fallen in love with the dark flush of happiness and exertion that's risen in her cheeks.

They pull off socks and shoes, dip their feet in the cool dark water and splash each other until they're both damp and mussed and she's giggling with a mixture of triumph and giddy delight. As they tire and her mood spirals down, she ends up with her head in his lap and her feet lying in the long wild grass, his fingers stroking through the tangled strands as he leans back against the base of a giant oak. She's playing idly with a feathery stalk, winding it through her fingers and over her hands, and he finds himself slipping into the trance of the humid afternoon and the purl of the quiet stream. This is all he's wanted, he thinks as the cicadas hum, and when he looks down at her she's silent and fast asleep. And so he sits there, drifting closer to the brink of slumber, and strokes her hair until he no longer has the strength to move his hand.

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He's pacing out the rage in the quiet night, letting the maelstrom of fury and pain roar through him while the stars wheel silently in their pre-determined courses high above his head. He hadn't known it was possible to hurt this much, hate this deeply, want death with the desperation of the well and truly damned. He needs his hands around her neck, his fingers choking the lies out of her slim white throat, his body trembling with release and hunger as he drains her of her power and then thrusts the sharp wood through her rotted, empty heart. He's shaking from the force of it, burning at the stake with the madness of his desire. And so when he turns and sees her, he can't believe the hand Fate has just dealt him, the ace of spades he is somehow about to play.

He stalks over to her, purpose in every silk-smooth motion, and takes her hands with a tenderness that's belied by the savagery of his gaze. Gently, courteously, he raises them to his lips, holds them there for just a second too long, and he smiles inwardly as she takes in a quick breath through her nose and pulls away.

"What's wrong, Damon?" she asks softly, and if he hadn't already known she was a lying devil through and through, that pathetic attempt at sympathy alone would have convinced him. God, how he hates her, both for playing him for a fool and expecting that he'd never find out just how deceptively treacherous she truly was. But now the shoe is on the other foot, and at the end of this night it'll be her blood painting his vengeful hands.

"Nothing, love," he murmurs easily, and somehow finds the self-control to cup her face in one hand and pull her to him for a lazy kiss. Their mouths meet and mingle in a familiar pattern, and he's pleased that the taste of betrayal is almost undetectable on his tongue. It's not until he pulls back and tightens the hand in her hair into a punishing fist that she realizes how deathly close danger has become.

"What are you doing?" she gasps, and he finds it laughably easy to ignore the fear that's suddenly bright and glassy in her eyes. He smiles, teeth flashing white in the glow of light from the distant house, and she must sense what he's about to do, for suddenly she shrinks back and tries to wrench away.

"Don't..." she whispers, and the pleading in her voice is unbelievably real. For a moment he pauses, something half-remembered and entirely human twinging in his gut, and then he ruthlessly tamps it down and brings his other hand up to roughly grasp her small chin.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out who you really are?" he asks her conversationally, enjoying the fact that he's in control of the situation and she's not. She's staring at him as if she's never seen him before, and he tightens his grip a little until she winces with the pain. "Don't try to lie to me again," he tells her coldly, his voice promising death and honesty as he tilts her face up to stare into those huge dark eyes. "I won't listen this time around."

She closes her eyes and he realizes that she's trembling under his hands. Slowly he lets go of her chin and looks at her, one eyebrow a perfect arch. She can't be trying to pull this stunt on him, he thinks in disgust. The woman he knew would have spat and snarled like a wildcat if he'd tried to lay a hand on her in anger. But this girl seems broken somehow, diminished by the bone-deep hatred in his fingers. And as he watches in amazement, a single tear slides out from under her thick lashes and trails its way like silver down her cheek.

"Damon," she says, murmurs it like a prayer, and when she opens her eyes there's such a world of heartbreak in them that it momentarily takes him aback. "Don't do this. Please."

And it's the sound of her voice breaking, begging him, that finally sends him spiraling over the edge. He tightens both hands around her slender neck, a gruesome necklace made of bitterness and deceit. He can't kill her this way, he knows full well. But he doesn't mind making her suffer on the way down to meet the Reaper.

So he tightens his hands yet again, squeezing until she can no longer choke and gasp for air, watches as her body shakes and her lips go ashen and mottled and then a lovely blue. He can feel the blood spurting desperately under his fingers, racing through her veins in a fruitless attempt to ferry oxygen to her brain. But it is useless, and finally he tires of watching her writhe slowly and presses down hard on the carotid artery until finally she stops struggling and goes limp in his waiting arms.

He lays her down on the leaves at his feet and waits for her to cough, to choke, to roll over and try to fight back with scratching nails and fire in her eyes. But as she remains motionless, the alarm bells that he'd so brutally silenced begin to ring more loudly in his head, clanging until he can barely stand to think over the deafening noise. Somewhere in the cacophony his mind makes the connection that his hands could not, and he falls abruptly to his knees beside her body, desperately searching for a spark of life, the memory of her pounding heart suddenly overwhelming his senses as his murderer's hands try to pump the air back into her empty lungs.

He cannot, and in his gut he knows there is no hope. Finally he lifts his mouth from hers, stops trying to breathe the life back into her, and simply holds her, a frozen weight against his empty chest.

"No," he shouts soundlessly, his lips forming words although there is no air to give them life. "No. _Elena_."

And as the silence envelops him he looks up at the uncaring stars and cannot bear to leave his dead.

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He shoots up, chest heaving, drenched in sweat, the dreams swirling around his skull and pressing in on him until he could hardly stand to breathe. Staggering, he rises and goes over to the window, opens it wide and drinks in the hot dank air. Deep in the distance lightning flickers and he can hear the faint rumble of the approaching storm. Despite the charge of electricity in the atmosphere and the smell of rain sweeping through the breeze, he can't keep his eyes fixed on the horizon. It was a nightmare, he tells himself over and over again. He'd never hurt the woman they both loved, never mistake her for her corruptible, corrupted ancestress. It could never happen. He won't let it happen. But no matter how many times he reassures himself as the storm breaks and the rain sheets down into the fathomless night, he cannot stop the helpless trembling of his hands.

There is blood and terror riding in the sky tonight.


	9. Starry Night

_Okay, so it's been over a week since I've updated this fic. I apologize--mea culpa. There's been a heck of a lot going on with school and work and such lately, but things are more or less sorted out now and hopefully I can get back to writing fanfic on a somewhat regular basis. It's much more fun than all the other things, to be sure. _

_At any rate, this chapter is something of a re-imagining of the last little bit of "Miss Mystic Falls," after Stefan snaps and starts drinking from Amber, the blond beauty pageant contestant. In the show I believe Elena stabs Stefan with a vervain dart and helps Damon lock him up in the cellar. In this re-telling Damon does it all himself. Although Elena is aware of what he's about to do, she decides to stay with and protect her family and friends instead. I'm taking the story from the point where they meet and discuss what's happened and how to deal with it. _

_Again...thanks to all of you who have read, reviewed, favorite-ed, or anything else. I appreciate your feedback more than I can say. Please keep going!_

_And, as always--read, drop me a line or two, and I sincerely hope that you enjoy. :)_

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"...I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the light."  
--Sarah Williams

He doesn't know how to handle this.

He knew it was coming. He knew from the moment he walked into the house and saw his brother, his long-hated, dearly beloved little brother staring up at him with terror in his eyes and blood forming a splotched ring of infamy around his mouth. He'd stopped dead, his stomach twisting into hard knots of ice, and wondered how the hell they were ever going to get out of this now. He didn't mind that Stefan was drinking human blood, though some small and yet-innocent part of him sighed in bitter resignation that the better half of their twisted duo had finally given in. But it was the fact that his brother had surrendered to and not chosen this path that gave him this terrible sensation of mingled guilt and apprehension. And the child-like fear in Stefan's eyes took him back to a history that he did not in any way care to repeat.

It had been this way before, he remembered. All those years ago, when blood and fire and the stench of fear combined into a miasma that could make you sick at your stomach, that could send the adrenaline pumping like heroin through vulnerable then-human veins. Stefan had always been the golden child, the trusting one, the son who knew without asking that his father would give him anything he asked and more. There was no need to compare the bread and the stone, the scorpion and the egg--not with Stefan. And though neither of them had realized it at the time, in the end it was that very sense of unwavering, unsuspecting trust that had betrayed them all. He'd never had to learn the arts of guile and deceit in order to get what he wanted or conceal what he'd already done. Perhaps if he had, life would be much different for both of them now. But as it had been, as it still was, Stefan was an innocent--"pure of heart," Emily Bennett had said. She'd said too that it was his curse as well as his blessing. And that meant (now as it always had been) that it was up to Damon, and only Damon, to piece together whatever livelihoods his brother had torn apart.

He doesn't know how to do it anymore. It's been so long, really--such a long, long pattern of taunting and teasing and torturing his brother, secure in the knowledge that while Stefan might be tempted, he would never actually succumb. It was a relief, come to think of it, being so sure that while he had to maintain his own strength, he wouldn't have to clean up after his brother. And while he'd worried about Stefan's safety in his vulnerable state, he'd stuck around for one hundred and fifty years in order to ensure that no one dared tangle with either of the Salvatore brothers...and that no one knew their most carefully-guarded secret.

But now...now that they've actually settled down, however briefly, sunk roots into the community and inadvertently fallen in love with the same girl, _now_ Stefan has to succumb to the insatiable desire of the bloodlust, and like it or not, he is lost to the hunger beyond redemption or hope of return. Damon knows his brother well enough to be sure of that. It's possible that Stefan can fight his way back to a tenuous grip on self-control. It's even possible that he could be around Elena, sniff the sweet siren's tune of her blood, and manage to avoid sinking his fangs into her neck and draining her completely dry. But he will never again be able to control himself well enough to go back to the solely vegetarian diet, whether he can deal with that realization or not. And there's really nothing that Damon can do. Those child-like eyes had silently begged him, the older one, the strong one, the one in control, to fix it. To make it better. To clean up the mess and hide the evidence and not punish him as he so richly deserved. And despite the betrayals and the years and the bitterness that stretches like a bone-deep chasm between the two of them, he could not find it in him to refuse.

This is too much, though, he thinks as he strides down the sidewalk with the cool brush of the evening gliding along his skin. Draining bags from a blood bank is one thing. Nibbling on helplessly compelled beauty contestants is another animal entirely. And there's really no way that he can keep his little brother from exposure and certain death if he keeps pulling asinine stunts like this. Fortunately Damon's got connections with the council and a truly incredible talent for believable lies. Otherwise they'd either be staked or burned to a crisp or possible both. (He was more than a little worried when Bonnie pulled her instant migraine trick. He knows full well that a good witch can easily kill with only the power of her eyes.) But he can't keep doing this, can't keep tidying up and stringing together webs of deceit and hoping against hope that somehow no one will find out. He's tied hand and foot in this situation, and if he's going to be honest with himself, he might as well admit that the only people keeping him in the midst of the chaos are Stefan and Elena.

Her name reminds him of the day's events, and the strange and exhilarating sensation of dancing with her in public, before a crowd, feeling every breath, every movement of her body while he ensnared her with only the all-too-human power of his eyes. He can't compel her, he knows, and he wouldn't try it even if he could. But he will seduce her, reminding her with every step and every thud of her beating heart that he is here, that he wants her, and that deep in her bones she knows she should be his. She wants him. If he hadn't realized it before, he knew it for a certainty after that inferno of a dance. The rising flush in her cheeks, the dilation of those dark, dark eyes, the half-caught breaths and flickering lashes were such a dead giveaway he was insanely tempted to call her hand right then and there. But there had been other things to tend to, other obligations that overrode both their desires and their inherent ends, and they'd had to leap on their white steeds to ride to Stefan's unwilling rescue. He hasn't dealt with all those conflicting emotions and their repercussions yet. Quite frankly, he's not sure he really can. But he's walking toward her front porch anyway, possibly in a masochistic self-inducement of yet more conflict into his already tattered existence.

He sits down on the steps, stretches both legs out in front of him and leans back on his elbows, looking up at the glittering night sky. He'd always loved stargazing, ever since he was a small child and his father took he and Stefan out on the front lawn with a book of constellations and a telescope. When the two of them were older they used to point out the constellations to each other, reminding each other of the stories of Greek gods and heroes embodied in the patterns wheeling infinitely high above their heads. He's seen too many night skies to find wonder in them anymore, watched too many bitter sunsets to rejoice at the advent of the stars. But he still finds a comfort in the familiarity of one thing that hasn't altered much in one hundred and forty-five years of constant change.

He's tracing the outline of Orion with cool and practiced eyes when he hears footsteps coming down the sidewalk. He doesn't look down the street--doesn't need to, really. He knows the sound of her stride by now, almost as well as he knows the scent of musk and roses with a kick that trails her wherever she goes. But there's something else mixed in with the perfume and the smell that is just purely Elena--something bitter and reeking of misery. She's been crying, he realizes. And something twists in his gut and twinges in his silent heart as he breathes in the scent of her tears.

She comes around the corner, head down, hair hiding her face as she walks quickly toward the house. Her shoulders are hunched protectively, a turtle pulling back into its battered shell, and she's holding her dress bag in front of her like an unwitting shield against the world. His hands clench automatically on the wood behind him, digging into the splintering surface as he fights the urge to run to her, carry her burdens and pick up all her worries. She is too strong a woman to need a knight in shining armor to fight off her dragons for her. But she is going to need someone before this night is over, and he decides in that split second between sight and recognition that it is going to be him.

"Elena?" he says softly, trying not to frighten her. He should have known better, because she merely looks up through her hair at him and then drops her eyes to the ground again in fatigue-ridden despair.

"What are you doing here, Damon?" she asks dispiritedly, and he can't remember the last time he heard her sound this tired. She walks over to him and sits on the porch, moving like an automaton in the romance of the encroaching dusk. He does know to not touch her yet, to give her a moment until the rawness fades. She did it for him, he remembers faintly, and the memory of that seemingly long-distant pain barely twinges as he looks down at her downbent head.

"Waiting for you," he answers her, even though he's fairly sure that she doesn't really need a reply. She knows why he's here as well as he does.

"How is he?" she asks after a long beat, and he notes dispassionately that there's more duty than compassion in the question. She's too tired to feel anything right now, he thinks. After a moment he laces his fingers together and locks them around one knee, staring up into the sky to avoid seeing the misery in her eyes.

"He's doing all right," he says slowly, each word spaced carefully in the dampness of the quiet air. "He's in the cellar right now, waiting on the vervain to wear off. I've been checking on him every hour or so, and he seems to be doing okay."

She nods perfunctorily and lays her bag down on the steps beside her, one hand smoothing over the material merely to give herself something to do. He stops himself from taking those restless fingers in his, and focuses instead on the listlessness in her aimless gaze.

"He's going to come out of this, Elena," he says, surprising himself with the depth of feeling that's suddenly apparent in his tone. "He's not going to be like this forever. It's just that he hasn't had to practice control in so long that at the first taste of human blood..."

He trails off, unsure of how to say what he's trying to convey. She looks over at him, and one corner of her mouth kicks up in a bitter grimace.

"It's my fault," she says starkly, lips pressing together into a single unforgiving line. "If I hadn't made him drink my blood, none of this would have happened. He wouldn't be lying in a cellar filled with vervain right now. It's my fault."

He shakes his head, all too familiar with the way that guilt can tear you apart and rip through any logical defenses.

"No, it isn't," he tells her with just a hint of iron in his voice. "It has never been your fault, Elena. You didn't choose this life for him. You didn't choose to look like Katherine, either, or torture him with the tomb vampires or try to take his life. And what happened tonight has nothing to do with the fact that you gave Stefan your blood to save both your lives, and everything to do with the fact that he's been denying his true nature for the past one hundred and fifty years. He's been lying to himself and everyone else, and this is the direct result."

Something flares in her eyes at that, but she doesn't straighten and doesn't turn to face him with fire in every vein. He'll have to push a little harder, he thinks resignedly.

"If it's anyone's fault, Elena, it's his," he pushes on, remorselessly. "If he'd bothered to learn a little self-control a hundred years ago, none of us would be in this fix right now. He wouldn't be a menace to this town, or to you, or, for that matter, to me."

She does turn at that, a little flicker of disbelief wavering in her weary face.

"What do you mean, a menace to you?"

He raises a cool eyebrow at her.

"I've spent a good deal of time ensuring my position with the Founders' Council, gaining the trust of the city leaders and protecting my position among the community. I'm not going to let him ruin all of that hard work with a single feeding spree because he can't manage to restrain his basest instincts."

She stares at him as if she's never seen him before.

"He doesn't _want_ to do this, Damon," she says deliberately, as if explaining something to a small and intractable child. "Why would you blame him for something he can't help?"

"Because he _can_ help it," he replies readily, the lies rising with well-oiled ease to his waiting lips. "He's had one hundred and fifty years to learn to help it. That girl wouldn't have been half-dead tonight if he hadn't tried to be such a damn saint back then. He chose this life, and now the rest of us are living with that choice."

She shakes her head, refusing to acknowledge the kernel of truth he's thrusting on her without so much as a by-her-leave. She doesn't want to believe it yet, he knows. But she has to let go, let herself feel the guilt and the pain and the terrible truth of betrayal before she can begin the process of moving on. And like it or not, he's an expert at this particular cycle.

"He was trying to protect people," she protests earnestly. "He didn't want to be a vampire--to be a monster like...like..."

"Like me," he finishes for her, and she's too tired to dissemble. After a moment she shrugs in acceptance, and he forces himself to hold back the triumphant smile.

"Better a monster who can control his hunger than a saint who's on a killing spree," he says pragmatically, and she winces as the memories surge back into her brain. He glances over at her carefully, gauging how close she is to the breaking point, and realizes that she's not quite there yet. Time for a little more pressure, he thinks.

"Face it, Elena. You're not dating a human who can take you out to dinner and give you flowers and chocolates on Valentine's Day," he tells her brutally. "You fell in love with a a vampire...who, by definition, is programmed to feed on your species and regard them as little more than prey. What did you think was going to happen? That he would never turn on you, would never threaten the people you loved? He's a good liar, Elena. He had almost everyone fooled. But down at rock bottom, he's a killer with incredibly bloody hands."

Her head whips around, and she gives him one burning stare before she stands up and stalks away, then wheels to turn on him in vengeful fury.

"And who the hell are you to talk?" she spits, and he's relieved to see the old fiery Elena still shining in the depths of her narrowed eyes. "How many innocent girls have you killed, Damon? How many beauty contestants ended up in bed with you and never woke up alive? At least Stefan tries. At least he's making an effort. You've never cared at all."

He knows she's speaking from the anger and the pain, but he can't help the bruises forming from the solid punch of her words. She's right, and he knows it. But what she doesn't realize is that he's right too, and she has to know both sides of the coin before she'll be able to rest tonight.

"Easy to say that, Elena," he says with freezing certainty in every syllable. "But we're not discussing my many peccadilloes tonight. We talking about the fact that my brother is a danger to you and to the rest of Mystic Falls because he chose to not control his hungers. None of which is your fault."

"But I invited him in," she says slowly, the realization dawning on her exhausted brain. "I invited both of you in. And it's too late now to go back."

"Is that what you want?" he asks her gravely, eyes searching hers. "To go back? Change everything you've done, eradicate the vampires from your life, go back to the way things used to be? Is that what you really want, Elena?"

She stares at him, a terrible grief rising in her face. He can see her begin to tremble, hands shaking with the intensity of her pain.

"No," she whispers, her throat moving as she swallows hard. "I let it all in. I chose to let it all in. And if I could go back...if I could go back right now, I wouldn't change a thing. I chose this for him, for everyone. It's my fault."

He rises, blurs in a single motion until he's standing in front of her and gripping her upper arms with hands that hurt. He shakes her just a little, enough to make her head snap up and her eyes bore into his; he's careful to make his own gaze empty, soulless, limpid as the bottom of a mountain lake on a clear and cloudless day.

"The hell you did," he tells her icily. "We make our own choices, and you have nothing to do with it. Humans are only good for two things in our world--food and entertainment. And you've been good for both, haven't you?"

She breaks at that, as he expected she would. Her eyes widen and she sucks in one ragged breath in a combination of shock and utter disbelief. Then one arm wrenches out of his loosened grasp and she swings blindly with her free hand, her palm connecting sharply with his cheek. The sound of the slap resounds in the quiet neighborhood as she wrestles her other arm free and begins beating at his chest, sobbing wildly as the words are jerked out of her like puppets on a string.

"You...bastard!" she gasps, the tears streaking down her cheeks faster than she can choke them down. "_You...lying...bastard_. He loved me...he _loved_ me. What would you know about love?"

He almost smiles at that. What _doesn't_ he know about love, he who has been in love with two women who share the same face, who has faced death and deceit and betrayal and somehow been forced to keep loving despite it all. But she has no conception of that kind of emotion. How could she?

"He would never...never _use_ me," she insists desperately, the tears streaking her face as he pins her wrists and holds her away from his body. "He's a good person, Damon. He'd never deliberately hurt anyone. You know that."

He doesn't bother to disillusion her. She'll find out on her own soon enough, he's afraid. But he's almost reached his objective, and he's not about to stop until he does.

"So compliant," he mocks her in a half-whisper next to the curve of her ear. "No wonder he didn't have to compel you to get you to do anything he wanted. Even betray the people you love the most."

"I didn't know!" she snarls at him, her face in his as she spits the words at him. "Do you think I would have endangered them if I had known? Do you think I would have made the choice so easily if I'd had the truth? What the _hell_ kind of person do you think I really am?"

He raises that eyebrow again, staring at her until the import of her words sinks in and her face registers the impact of it like a blow to the windpipe. It's not her fault, and she knows it. It was never her fault, and now she has to deal not only with the fact that she man she loves is a danger to her family and community, but that she in all fairness cannot shoulder his burden of guilt. It's a hard lesson to learn in one night, he knows, but it's his job to teach it to her, and he's going to do it well or not at all. So he doesn't take her in his arms yet, doesn't hold her to soften the blow or decrease the pain until she sways against him and he can hear the first sob rip out of her with the raw force of a tidal wave. Then he pulls her down to the steps with him, rocks her gently as she cries against his chest and he bends his dark head over the agony in her disillusioned eyes.

"Shhh, baby...shhh," he murmurs, knowing that what he says right now doesn't matter as long as she can hear his voice. He strokes her hair and presses his lips to her damp temple, and he can feel her slim body shudder as the crying wears her down. He knows the fault lines are shaking open along his own heart, but he can't let himself feel her pain yet...not now, when she needs him still. And so he lifts her until she's sitting against him, her head lying in the crook of his shoulder, his bent arms protecting her from the truths of the unpleasant world, and she clings to him as if he's the only solid thing left in a life that has fallen apart suddenly beneath her feet. He'll stay here with her until the crying stops, hold her as the headache sets in and she falls asleep out of sheer physical exhaustion. He'll carry her inside, slip up the stairs with her as silently as the footprints of a ghost, lay her on the bed and sit in the chair beside her until the morning light breaks through and reminds him of another morning when their fingers clung in comfort that could not be spoken but was given nonetheless. And although he cannot sleep tonight, he will stay with her through the hours of darkness under the light of the steady, ageless stars.

There is no fear in that which you love the most.


	10. Lady Moon

_Okay, so I haven't updated this fic in a while. A _long_ while. This would be because I had massive writer's block. It was the really annoying kind where you know exactly how the scene in your head is going to go, but you just can't get the words to come together on the page and you don't dare scribble just anything because it needs to be just right. Yep. That kind. _

_Fortunately I finally figured out what the problem was. And I fixed it, by publishing the second half of Chapter 10 first. I realize this may seem a little backwards. However, there is a method to my madness. Do me a favor and read it, tell me what you think, and then as soon as I write it, I will publish the first half of this chapter. For some reason, I think it works this way. Let me know. _

_Also, the title references the first half of the chapter, which is thematically centered around Beltane and the May Day ceremonies. Since May Day is sometimes known as "Lady Day," I thought I'd refer to that custom in the second half of the chapter._

_Thanks!_

_fairwinds09_

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After it was over and they'd lain there in the darkness, letting the cold sweat dry on their skins and the silence spin out until it choked the words that lay in both their throats, he could take no more of it. He knew what she was thinking, the tangled mess of divided loyalties and unquestionable guilt that was spinning through her mind. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she was thinking of Stefan right now, comparing this moment to all the others she'd shared with his brother. And that certainty was driving him out of his mind.

Without a word he slipped out of her bed and rose to pick up his discarded clothes, a bitter tinge of irony curving the corner of his mouth as he followed the trail they'd left on the floor of her otherwise tidy bedroom. He'd clean up after himself, he thought with the cold taste of fury like iron in the back of his throat. He'd tidy up her life, make sure that she didn't have to deal with the fallout of falling in love with two brothers at the same time. He'd fade out of her life, let her forget that he'd ever been a part of this incredibly twisted story. She'd never remember he'd been there, if he had anything to say about it.

He was buttoning his shirt with quick, sharp movements when he heard the sheets rustle behind him. He turned, prepared to give her a flippant remark and a casual goodbye, and then the look in her eyes stopped him cold. She'd never looked at him like that before, even through all the pain and the memories they'd shared, and it had his stomach tightening in both anticipation and dread. She was going to say that this couldn't work, that it had all been a mistake, that she'd committed a terrible sin and that this could never, ever happen again. Of course she was going to say that. How could she say anything else?

And so, when she drew in a long, ragged breath and opened her mouth, he had to fight the urge to hunch his shoulders as if preparing for a blow. It would be like a hard uppercut to the face, he thought—hurts like hell, but you get over it. He'd heal fast. He had to.

Which was why, when she finally spoke, he didn't hear her properly the first time, and had to ask her to repeat it over again.

"I said I'm not sorry," she said steadily, eyes wide and unreadable in the darkness. "I'm not, Damon. Maybe I should be. But if I could go back and change what happened tonight, I wouldn't." She stopped and looked at him for the space of a single breath. "I wouldn't."

He knew he was staring at her like an idiot. His mouth was probably hanging open, too. Quite frankly, he was too busy trying to sort out the implications of what she'd just said to care. She couldn't possibly mean what he thought she did. She couldn't. It simply wasn't possible.

She shook her head and smiled at him just a little bit, as if she could read the lightning-fast revolutions of his thoughts.

"I know it's not exactly what either of us expected. No one thought this was going to happen. But it did. And now all we can do is move on from here."

He wasn't aware that there _was_ a "here." He didn't even know where he was anymore, which meant he certainly had no idea where the hell she thought _she_ was in this little _menage a trois_. All he knew was that all the recent drama in his life must have driven him insane, and he needed to get out of there as quickly as possible before the hallucinations got any worse.

He was busily tucking his shirt into his jeans and looking fruitlessly for his shoes when she slipped out of bed and came to stand in front of him, one small hand coming to rest on his shirtfront, her fingers worrying at the buttons.

"Damon," she said quietly, and he tried his best to ignore the way the blood thrummed in his veins despite his mind's warning that it was no use. He couldn't think straight around her. If he was going to be honest with himself, he never really had.

"What?" he managed through a painfully dry throat, and finally spied one shoe over by the closet. She was still fiddling with his buttons, though, and somehow he didn't feel like pushing her away.

"I meant it when I said I wasn't sorry. I know you're thinking I should be, that it's what everyone expects of me…including you. But I'm tired of doing what's expected. This is who I am, this is what I feel. And if tonight was part of that, then so be it."

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He doesn't know what's wrong with her, but she must be on some sort of mind-altering drug or something. The Elena Gilbert he knows is madly in love with Stefan, is loyal and responsible and makes good decisions. That girl would never sleep with her ex-boyfriend's brother, would never stand there in front of him and tell him to his face that she made a mistake and she's not sorry for it. That girl hates his guts. And instead he's talking to a stranger with Elena's face.

"You don't know what you're saying," he tells her roughly, hating the harsh note in his voice. She might as well realize it now, though. Before it's too late, before she finds out the true extent of the mistake she's already made. Before she rips his heart out like Katherine did.

"No, I'm not," she whispers with conviction heating her every syllable. "I know what I want, Damon. I have for a long time. I just didn't want to let myself believe it."

He's hearing things. It's finally happened. His extra-perceptive vampiric senses are picking up phenomena that aren't actually there. He wishes this had happened a few years down the line, but what's a few years when you're immortal, really?

Her mouth is set in that adorable little pout she gets when she's really stubborn, and there's a line digging itself into the smooth space between her brows. She's giving him a look that strips him down, peeling back muscle and skin until he's standing before her bare to the bone. He almost flinches, and has to force himself to look at her straight on.

"I know you don't believe me yet, Damon," she whispers, every word carrying the force of a carefully calculated punch to the jaw. "But I'm not lying to you. I want you. I have for a long time. And if you turn away from me now, it's going to be your choice. Not mine."

He gives her one long look, one hundred and forty-five years of utter loneliness condensed down to a single gaze out of ice-blue eyes. She doesn't mean this. She can't. He'll ruin her in ways she never thought possible, break the generosity in her smile and rip the warmth in her eyes into a thousand bleeding pieces. She doesn't know what she's asking for. And he's here to make damn sure that she never gets it.

So he turns away from her, pushes her hand away, slips on his shoes and sticks his wallet back into the rear pocket of his jeans. She'll thank him for this later, he thinks with a sick tug in the pit of his stomach. She won't stand here with dazed dark eyes and trembling lips when she realizes what a favor he's doing her. And he'd rather know that she'll miss him later than hate him now.

He's at the window before she has time to draw breath to plead, and he's poised on the sill before he looks back over his shoulder at her, hands outstretched to him in the moonlight. She'll get over this, he tells himself. When Stefan gets back to his normal self, they'll work all of this out, and she'll be happy again. Of course she will.

"He'll come back, Elena," he tells her emotionlessly. "He'll get better with time, and he'll come back. And when he does, he's not going to find you with me."

He blurs out the window and leaps to the ground in a single, graceful move. He feels rather than hears her move over to the open pane and look out into the night, trying to find him somewhere among the shadows. He's already running, though, weaving aimlessly through the forest in search of questions to which he'll never know the answers. Right now it's just enough to run and not think, not feel, not remember the girl he left standing at an open window, staring at an empty lawn. She isn't his to remember. She never was. And he's better off pretending that nothing ever happened between them.

Oh, but it's a bitter moon tonight.


End file.
